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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27539584">Like Ships in the Night</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/alllyr/pseuds/alllyr'>alllyr</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Of Bridges Crossed and Burned [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Therapy with Dr. Albert Krueger (Video Game), 文森: G4人偶事件 | Vincent: Phantom of the G4 (Video Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Gen, Light Angst, Self-Indulgent, everything is ooc i just wanted to write this because i like my angst goddamnit, is this slash? heck if i know, made up entirely of headcannons lets go</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 16:42:15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,007</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27539584</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/alllyr/pseuds/alllyr</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Vincent hated him. Vincent was a liar. </p><p>In which conversations are had, feelings are felt, and some things almost get resolved.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Vincent Edgeworth &amp; Albert Krueger</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Of Bridges Crossed and Burned [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2043469</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>68</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Like Ships in the Night</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">


        <li>
            Inspired by

            <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27431536">A Pleasant Chat with My Archnemesis</a> by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/JCMorrigan/pseuds/JCMorrigan">JCMorrigan</a>.
        </li>

    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Some short self-indulgent semi-angst, ft. ooc characters, groundless speculation and really long sentences. You're welcome.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Hello Vincent,” the voice said. </p><p> </p><p>Vincent froze. It had been a long time — <em> years — </em> since he had heard this voice, but it's cadence was a familiar one, low and lilting and entirely too pleasant for the atrocity of a human it belonged to.  </p><p> </p><p>It continued, ignorant to Vincent’s inner turmoil. “It’s been a while.” </p><p> </p><p>He almost laughed from the absurdity of it - of the entire situation. A while? Years — it had been years since he had last seen Albert’s face, longer since he had heard his voice. He’d spent years trying to forget him, the sheer hatred burning in his veins. His hands twitched even now, a hair’s breadth away from throwing the phone against the wall, patience be damned. He hated Albert, hated him with every fiber of his being, a face seared permanently into his brain. </p><p> </p><p>And now the man was back and taunting him with his memories, entirely unchanged, and Vincent wanted to kill him right then and there for resurfacing all the thoughts and feelings he had tried so hard to suppress. </p><p> </p><p>The silence stretched for a moment too long. “You,” he said, at last. </p><p> </p><p>He could hear the delight in Albert’s voice, could pinpoint the exact moment Albert lit up and grinned. “Yes. Is that all you have to say to me, dear Vincent? You wound me.” </p><p> </p><p>Vincent ignored the twinge in his gut at the endearment. He’d gotten enough of them from Victor over the years. He should be used to this. Why wasn’t he used to this?</p><p> </p><p>“Spit it out. Why did you call?” </p><p> </p><p>“Is that how you greet an old friend? I was so looking forward to talking to you, Vincent. How have you been doing? Finally scraped yourself out of second place?” </p><p> </p><p>“You aren’t answering my question.” </p><p> </p><p>“And you aren’t being a very good conversation partner, Vincent.”  </p><p> </p><p>“I haven’t been second in a long time. Head of legal at Myers Corp, haven’t you heard?” </p><p> </p><p>The reply was soft. “Yes, I know. Congratulations, Vincent. You must be proud.” </p><p> </p><p>It should have felt like a victory — the knowledge that he’d surpassed Albert after all this time, that he’d mattered enough for Albert to have kept tabs on him, that he wasn’t the only one typing the other’s name into a search engine on the nights where all the thoughts and emotions seemed to come flooding back as fresh as they had been years ago, that he wasn’t the only one missing whatever it was that they used to have. The rivalry, the competition, the drive to keep doing better and better and better. </p><p> </p><p>It didn’t. </p><p> </p><p>It was a hollow victory. Pyrrhic, in all its facets, in Albert’s quiet, almost sad, acknowledgement, in the end of an era. He’d spent years chasing this. It felt like a waste. </p><p> </p><p>“Did your research, then? I’m flattered. Was I really so important to you?” </p><p> </p><p>This was the game. The back and forth of speaking without speaking, hiding meaning and intention behind pretty words and smiles. He missed it. He was sick of it.</p><p> </p><p>“Of course.” A pause. “How could you ever think otherwise, Vincent?” </p><p> </p><p>The words felt like a slap to his face. A sharp anger flared in his chest, and it took all his effort to ground out a single word. “Stop.” </p><p> </p><p>“Stop what?” </p><p> </p><p>“Stop saying my name.” </p><p> </p><p><em> Stop saying my name like that, </em>his traitorous brain corrected.</p><p> </p><p>“Why should I?” He could imagine Albert’s smile, a slow widening of the mouth and a deliberate tilting of the head, the gentleness doing absolutely nothing to belie the bitterness in his voice. “I do it to make up for the fact that you haven’t said mine once.” </p><p> </p><p>Something in his heart wrenched, anger giving way to something much heavier. It was a wound that had never really healed, a sting that had faded over time, but persisted in spite of it. He had felt something like this once, the day he’d looked out the window purely by chance to see Albert leaving without a backwards glance, vanishing as if he had never been there in the first place, leaving behind nothing but the empty room across the hall and a memory, the face staring back every time he looked in a mirror.  </p><p> </p><p>People said they could have been brothers. Vincent had thrown out every mirror in the house for it. Years of his life spent chasing a single goal, and then — nothing. </p><p> </p><p>Vincent hated him. For always being better, for his easy smile and his easy laughter, for everything, for leaving without even having the audacity to say goodbye; it was an acidic, burning, all-consuming kind of hatred that had fallen way to bitterness, a simmering resentment, over time. </p><p> </p><p>Vincent hated him. Vincent was a liar. </p><p> </p><p>“It’s been years,” he said instead. </p><p> </p><p>“I know.” </p><p> </p><p>“You haven’t called once.” </p><p> </p><p>Albert huffed a laugh over the phone. “You haven’t, either.” </p><p> </p><p>“Why call now, then?” </p><p> </p><p>“Would you believe me if I said that a friend suggested it?” </p><p> </p><p>“A friend?” </p><p> </p><p>“A former patient. I think you’d like them.” </p><p> </p><p>Right. Albert was a therapist now, a fact that Vincent was familiar with after he had left a drunken review on Albert’s website out of pure spite, and Albert had pinned it there for all to see. Their last almost-interaction before… this. </p><p> </p><p>He’d studied marine biology in college. Albert’s current profession was perplexing.</p><p> </p><p>“Remind me again. Why are you a therapist?” </p><p> </p><p>“It’s a long story.” </p><p> </p><p>Their conversation was stilted — a byproduct of years of distance, of almost zero-contact. It would be almost too easy to return to the barbs of the past, insults and goads, as if nothing had ever changed between them. </p><p> </p><p>Except something had changed, everything had changed, and Vincent didn’t know if he wanted to go back. It was a strange sort of mutual understanding, a peace-offering, a tentative sort of balance, question and answer and apology and forgiveness wrapped up into one misshapen package. </p><p> </p><p>“Alright Albert,” he said, and it felt like a concession, a weight lifted as he leaned back against his desk. “I’m listening.” </p>
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